


November Mistletoe

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Christmas Tree, Family, Friendship, Gen, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-29
Updated: 2009-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:39:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred arrives to help Matthew decorate the Christmas tree that Matthew doesn't have yet, as it's only past Halloween.</p>
            </blockquote>





	November Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> For [HistoryBlitz](http://historyblitz.livejournal.com)'s prompt: Christmas.

As Matthew pulls into his drive, headlights flash over a familiar figure in the yard, gazing up at the night. The man looks down from the stars but doesn't move as Matthew parks; even from here, as he opens the door and sets one foot on the drive, Matthew can feel his smile in the dark.

"Alfred?" The question mark is unintentional; the figure, unmistakable. Matthew gently slams the car door behind him. "What are you doing here?" he asks, genuine question this time as Alfred bounds over to meet him.

"Nice to see you, too," Alfred grins, giving him a hug. "I just wanted to see you," he shrugs, "so I came by."

It's not that Alfred comes by only when he wants something, but—"Are you sure that's all?" Matthew grins to take the edge off his dubious squint.

"Actually," Alfred says, "I'm here to help you decorate your tree."

"Oh, well," Matthew slides the key into the lock, "I haven't got one yet." He's about to point out that it's only the first week of November, but Alfred's grin has widened in a way that is both wonderful and suspicious—

And then Alfred points. Matthew follows the trajectory of Alfred's finger to the spruce tree leaning against the side of his house. He looks back at Alfred, who adds an eyebrow waggle to his grin.

"Come on!" Alfred tugs at Matthew's elbow, tows him over to present the tree: "What do you think? Awesome, right?"

Matthew peers up at the top branch, and estimates it to be well over seven feet. What he thinks is that Alfred is crazy. "Yeah," he says, and smiles.

"Like wrestling an Ent," he grunts a few moments later as they struggle for the right grip.

Alfred's laughter comes back to him from somewhere on the other side of the tree, but Matthew isn't sure he got the reference until a moment later when Alfred says, "We shouldn't be _wrestling_ the Ent—we should _be_ the Ent!"

They reorient themselves and herd the tree through the front door, branches springing free on the other side; then down the hallway, pausing to readjust their grips, and into the living room.

Bruised needles let off the resonant musk of pine: it's like the house has been turned inside-out. What's it's really like, is Christmas.

Alfred raises a questioning eyebrow to Matthew's smile, but only asks, "Where do you want it?" He turns to survey the room, absently brushing stray needles from himself.

"Over there," Matthew says, nodding to the customary corner.

Gesticulating restricted as they rearrange the furniture, Alfred pours his enthusiasm into words, going on about being a pirate for Halloween this year and pausing for the intermittent "yeah?"s Matthew attentively offers.

The armchair slides against Matthew's palms, the underside of his knuckle joints, to his fingertips; his fingers curl and dig in but can't hold it, and the chair _thuds_ to the floor.

"Hey," Alfred says, interrupting his own swashbuckling tale, "are you all right?"

"Yeah." Matthew picks up the chair again.

"Should we—would you rather do this in the morning?" Alfred is bordering on solicitousness, brow comically raised and furrowed as if he's just now realized the hour and is comparing it to Matthew.

"No." Matthew picks up the chair again. "It's fine."

"Just so long as you're up for it!" Alfred slips back into an easy grin.

Matthew smiles enduringly and snorts, "I'm up for anything you are!"

Alfred laughs.

Once they've finished clearing space, they backtrack over the trail of needles, down the hall and to the closet. After some rummaging around, Matthew locates the boxes of decorations and hands them back to Alfred. He finds the tree stand and the step stool, and starts to close the door.

"Wait, what about that one?"

Matthew glances up to see Alfred indicating a small box on the top shelf, clearly marked _X-Mas_.

"That one's for Arthur."

"Oh." Alfred chews on his lower lip, hefting the boxes to shift their weight. "Do you want to wait for Arthur?"

"No." Matthew erases Alfred's concern with a smile. "I'll just save those. We can do the rest of it together, you and I."

Alfred studies his face, but when Matthew only continues to smile, Alfred lets himself break into another grin, and Matthew knows he's made the right decision.

Giving each other directions, trying not to step on toes, they wrangle the tree into the stand, adjust the angle, and clamp it in. Then they come around to the front and step back to the middle of the room to survey it.

The tree that towered over them outside now stretches up towards the ceiling, fits into the corner and reaches into the room, making the space more intimate, inviting and welcoming.

Matthew can't help smiling: "You're not completely crazy after all."

"You thought it was too big, didn't you!"

"Yeah," Matthew admits, still smiling. "But it's good."

Alfred beams proudly.

As they're opening up the boxes looking for the tree lights, Alfred says, "Oh, I left something in the car." He disappears with a promise to be right back and Matthew nods, pulling out the string of clear bulbs he's just found.

Matthew sets the step stool down and loops one end of the lights around an upper branch. The tree sways slightly, so he kneels to tighten the screws. He doesn't look up when he hears Alfred come back. Doesn't look up until he feels something encasing his head, fur tickling his ears; then he looks up and Alfred's grinning down at him from beneath a Santa hat, and Matthew puts up his hand to touch his own.

"Don't take it off!"

"Never," Matthew promises with a smile, adjusting the hat more comfortably.

They wind the lights around the tree, fingertips occasionally touching as they pass the wire back and forth to each other. Then Matthew finds himself on his knees again, plugging in the cord. Alfred applauds with delight as the lights come to life, and a warm radiance fills the room.

Matthew goes into the kitchen to warm up some mulled wine. When he returns, Alfred is showering the tree with exuberance, wafty strands of silver tinsel cascading in irregular patterns all about. As Alfred turns to take the proffered mug, lights glint off the stray strands of silver clinging to him, making him sparkle, and Matthew doesn't brush them off.

In between appreciative sips and savors, they continue dressing the tree with red and green and gold glass baubles, and ornaments of painted wood and ceramic: traditional christmastime and winter symbols, snowflakes and train carriages and angels and animals.

"All right then," Matthew says as he hangs a moose whose goldleaf antlers have chipped, "how did you do it?"

"What?" Alfred looks over and sees Matthew eyeing the uppermost branches of the tree. "Oh, the tree? Easy—I measured."

"Yeah," Matthew says, "but how did you know it would fit so perfectly?"

"I measured your house," Alfred says, amused. "Last time you had me over, when you were out of the room, I measured floor-to-ceiling."

Matthew opens his mouth to jibe Alfred; but he can't think what to say, so he only smiles and reaches for another decoration.

When the boxes are empty, Matthew excuses himself and makes a quick trip to retrieve something from the hall closet.

Alfred's eyebrows go up when Matthew hands him the angel for the top of the tree, halo burnished as bright as the star shining at the end of his wand, emerald eyes twinkling as Alfred shifts it in the light, smoothing down the cloth toga. "But, don't you want to save this one for Arthur?"

"No." Matthew smiles. "You do it."

Alfred climbs up on the step stool. Reaching for the spire of the topmost branch, he leans in a little closer, misplants his foot, and falls into the tree. Ornaments clattering, the tree knocks against the wall; it doesn't fall over, but Alfred does. "Whoa!" he says, and grins up at Matthew. "Ha ha—just like when we were kids, right?"

It's not; not exactly. Matthew doesn't say that, though. He doesn't say anything.

They look at each other in the quiet glow. The moment should be awkward, but it isn't. Then Matthew extends his hand and Alfred takes it, helping Matthew help him up.

After they straighten the tree, readjusting the stand and sorting out the decorations that have gone askew or fallen off entirely, they stand back to admire their handiwork.

"That's done, then," Matthew says.

But Alfred says, "Not quite!"

Under Matthew's curious gaze, he goes to his bag and pulls out a sprig of mistletoe. Crossing to the archway between the hall and the living room, he stretches for the lintel but can't quite reach.

"Try this," Matthew says, bringing the step stool over. Alfred eyes it with mock wariness. Matthew laughs and helpfully puts his hands on Alfred's hips to hold him steady as Alfred climbs onto the stool.

"There," Alfred says, pinning up the sprig securely.

He backs off the stool and turns to Matthew. And Matthew's hands are still on his hips and they're looking at each other, and it should be awkward again, but again it's not.

And Matthew kisses him.

Lips brush together, part slightly; warm and moist and welcoming; tongues slide and lick and curl, wrapping around invitation and acceptance.

Mouths move apart, heads still together, and Alfred says with soft amusement, "We're not under the mistletoe, though."

Matthew covers Alfred's smile with his own and walks him backwards, kicking the stepstool out of the way; and now they're in the doorway, fitting to each other. Kissing under the November mistletoe.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone unfamiliar with them, Ents are a fictional creation of author J.R.R. Tolkien ( _The Lord of the Rings_ ). A race of talking, humanoid tree-like creatures, Ents herd trees the way shepherds herd sheep.


End file.
